Matter of the Heart
by syndomatic
Summary: A series of very short stories. — 04: When Nobita is ten years old, he sees something emerge from inside the drawer of his desk.
1. take it from me, i'm disorderly

**A/N: **Set during middle school in the badfuture!AU, because.  
><strong>AN2: **This'll be my dumping ground for any future short Doraemon fics I might write, though updates will probably be ultra slow due to exams + lack of inspiration.  
><strong>AN3: **This is kind of lackluster/very self-indulgent, sorry. I swear, I'm working on it.  
><strong>AN4: **Also, send me prompts (characters/pairings + a theme) if you want to! Don't expect anything amazing though, just saying.

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><p><em>01. crush<em>

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The envelope is crisp white paper, delightfully pristine and familiar between his fingers. Dekisugi holds it out in front of him and the pale afternoon light splays over it, tinting it with the color of warmth, almost like it's blushing. The girl's name is written in red ink, something bright and shiny and eye-catching; his nails dig into the surface of it, applying halfhearted pressure that leave dull, smudging marks. Idly, he can't help but think about how easy paper tears, how it's almost as fragile as the heart one could pour out into it. It's almost funny, kind of (… not really; whatever — he's working on his jokes, okay).

He imagines how it'd feel for her if he were to rip it apart in front of her — the bashful letter inside it and all — dryly, in one clean cut motion, like it's yesterday's paper (it might as well be). Dekisugi recognizes the girl — she's in his class, too — and she's all glossy hair and too-bright eyes, pretty and cute but not beautiful, meltingly emotional and heartfelt. He doesn't know her well, but he knows enough to assume that she won't take it well if he ever decides to act on it. Hell, she'll probably cry too, or do something worse.

Isn't that what kids his age are supposed to do? Cry and moan when they don't get their way? He doesn't allow himself to feel superior or smug because he doesn't really deserve to, all things considered, but —

— _whatever_, he thinks. The letter's probably not interesting enough to warrant a look-see, anyway; probably just a page of banal prose and poetry, a declaration, some tentative offer for a date. Boring, conventional, predictable, things that girls still think he hasn't gotten sick of. He's not even going to open it, most likely; a dismissive glance and down it goes to the chute, the bin, the furthest trash container where it belongs. Hidden deep in the shadows where no-one bothers to look, along with all of its equally-crisp, equally-pristine counterparts, because that's all it's worth.

* * *

><p>She's staring at him flatly as he shoves the envelope quickly, discreetly into the front pocket of his bag; a practiced gesture he's done dozens of times before. Nobody else is looking. Shizuka's eyes are pretty, half-lidded, the ordinarily soothing brown color suddenly sharp, almost threatening to snap at him. Dekisugi turns his head with interest, waiting for her reaction — but Shizuka is perceptive, and she refuses. The bell rings; she shoves her books inside her bag and gets up from her seat evenly, any emotion daring to rise having been bottled neatly, diluted in the neutrality of her smile as she motions for the classroom door.<p>

Dekisugi smiles back, understandingly despite himself. He leans back into his chair. Minamoto Shizuka gets love letters, too.


	2. there are no legible signs

"Hey, Suneo."

Gian's voice is surprisingly low in the empty lot. Suneo tilts his head back, struggling to look at him from where he's sitting. The sun, a scorching red circle against the blue sky, doesn't much agree with the movement — he feels the material of his shirt sticking to his back as he strains to look at the other boy in the eye, and he wriggles his toes inside his canvas sneakers, regretting the effort.

"What," he replies, dull. The light traps itself between his eyelashes and he squints, trying not to let the annoyance show. He doesn't want to take any chances that Gian might take it the wrong way; he's got enough problems as is. Like how his new model car's arrival got delayed until next week, or that his mother's decided to take up the newest healthy food fad, or just how much he'd kill for something cold right about now—

"I dunno," Gian mumbles. His dumb, gruff voice brings Suneo back to the empty lot they're at, the green grass he's sitting uncomfortably on. Suneo just barely curbs the urge to snort at him. "It's really hot today."

"I'm aware of that," he says, a little too quickly, a little too blandly. Gian blinks and shifts his eyes at him, looking vaguely offended, but neither says nor does anything more. Suneo huffs into his hand, suddenly relieved that the heat's rendered Gian's fists immobile as well. " … What do you suppose we should do about it, Big G?"

Gian pauses, then says, "We could buy shaved ice."

"Huh," he says. He was just about to suggest that. "Yeah. Let's do that."

"Good." He grins triumphantly as he gets off the pipe, hands already haughtily placed on his waist. "You're paying."

Suneo, never having the leisure of choice when Gian is concerned, shrugs in affirmation.

* * *

><p>The stand isn't located very far from the lot, but the less than ideal weather conditions make it seem like it's much further than it actually is. They battle the heat as they roll down the empty street, the sole of their shoes scratching dully against the gray asphalt. They busy themselves with catching their breath when they finally reach the dessert stand, Suneo's hands leaning on his tired knees before he gets up to make his order.<p>

"Two large shaved ices, please," Suneo says politely to the clerk with a (in his own matter-of-fact opinion) winning smile, handing over the money and a fair amount of tips as well, "and keep the change." He's a generous person like that; his mom would be so proud. The clerk returns his look with a disinterested narrowing of his eyes as he takes the money from the boy's hand, already starting up the machine and picking up the containers. He expects the ungrateful reaction — such is the behavior of lesser people — but he still can't help but feel a little bit insulted. The man could at least acknowledge his kindness.

"Thanks," he says with a nod as he picks up his order on the countertop. The man, ignoring the basic rules of customer service, merely turns back to the machine in response, and this time Suneo doesn't quite feel like grumbling inwardly over it. The dessert is chilly and saccharine in his two hands, the ice twinkling alluringly in the heat. The syrup, sticky and sugary, drips down from the side of one of the cups, leaving patches of bright red on the floor. Suneo flinches at the mess, and turns quickly to Gian, already waiting expectantly behind him.

He hands out a cup (the one with the drippy red syrup) to him. "Here you go, Big G. One tall order of shaved ice, plus strawberry syrup."

Gian doesn't bother saying sorry, but he's grinning widely as he sticks the plastic spoon inside the top of the ice, and then shoves a heaping spoonful into his open mouth, slurping as he does so. Suneo, still unaccustomed to the other boy's severe lack of manners, tries hard not to feel disgusted at the way the syrup dribbles messily on the side of his mouth.

"Man," he says, between increasingly loud and increasingly gross (and distressingly distracting) sounds, "this stuff is the best!"

Suneo disagrees. He's tasted much better shaved ice made by his family's personal chef — he could've freely had his fix of the cold dessert if not for the fact that the machine is currently broken, and he couldn't stand the thought of eating ice shaved using a _blender_. Still; knowing Gian, it's understandable, so he doesn't voice his protests aloud. "Yeah," he says, absently.

"Hey, man, your ice is melting," Gian reminds, pointing his spoon at him in a vaguely threatening way. The plastic stares back at him. "Are you okay? You looked spaced out just now."

"Uh," he says, looking away pointedly in the realization that he's been _staring_ (um, _eww_), "no, I'm fine." His own spoon digs deep into the partially-melted ice.

Gian, content with his flimsy reply, says nothing, and returns to his sweet. Suneo feels more relieved than he should be, for some reason.

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><p><strong>AN: **I prefer this style more. It's more flexible.

I've watched like, one episode of the dub, and though I don't appreciate the efforts to Americanize the setting, I can say with honesty that the voices fit. Also, yes, obligatory apology for using Gian's dub name.


	3. nervous laughter in your head

_189. drought_

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><p>The sun remains a constant, scorching red circle against the clear blue sky, but the two cups of shaved ice on the table provides enough chill to go around for both of them. Nobita munches through his portion with inhumane speed and unrepentant glee, smiling widely like he's a kid five years younger than he really is, his mouth red with syrup and a little numb afterwards.<p>

He's just about to ask for seconds when he starts noticing her. Shizuka eats her desserts like a lady should, her knees straight and propped, taking calculated spoonfuls and dabbing her mouth with handkerchief when she's finished. Nobita notices her, and he _stares_, like he always does — but today, he can't help but feel embarrassed.

He doesn't know why, not really, even though he can think of many reasons why he should be. Maybe it's because she doesn't notice him looking at her as much as he notices himself looking at her. Or because he's noticed that he's a bit of a slob, really, and they're at her house. Or probably because they're going to be husband and wife one day. Or _something. _Nobita can't quite put his finger on it.

He doesn't know a lot of things, anyway, so it doesn't surprise him that this happens to be one of the things he's clueless about. Shizuka is a girl, after all, and girls are enigmatic, and complicated and just a little bit irrational. Attempting to really understand her will just be detrimental to his health. (And he's tried!)

Still, he thinks, sometimes —

"Nobita," Shizuka says, voice even and level, her eyes close to his, "are you okay?"

"Yeah." Nobita nods, jabbing a spoon into the half-melted ice inside the cup, offering a foolish smile to soothe himself. "… I'm fine."

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><p><strong>AN: **Um, oops. Super short, because I suddenly lost inspiration around the end. I'm so sorry.


	4. forever and always

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><p>This is how he remembers it:<p>

When Nobita is ten years old, he sees something emerge from inside the drawer of his desk. It's big, blue, with thin whiskers protruding from its round red nose, and for the first few seconds the boy is not quite sure about what to think of this foreign creature's presence or how to react appropriately.

A chubby hand manages to reach out from the wood of the drawer, awkward and heavy, and it struggles in holding onto the nearby chair, before it fails altogether and falls flat face-first onto the tatami floor, fingerless palms strewn about in pain and apparent defeat.

Nobita presses his back harder against his bookshelf, where he keeps his comic books, still pensive and unsure, buying time as he waits for the creature to act first. He thinks, in the midst of all this confusion, that he might've read a scene play out like this in a science fiction title he'd read once.

He'd try and recall how the hero had reacted in such an event, except that he'd only read it precisely once before Gian saw it fit to take the book away from him and decide to never ever return it — but, well, that's not very important right now, is it? His current priority is the blue blob seated in front of him; think, Nobita, think…

"Ah, um—" begins the creature, rubbing on its forehead, apparently still reeling from the previous impact. "Nobi—"

Nobita screams, then, and lurches back in shock, his head promptly connecting with the wooden shelf. Downstairs, his mother huffs, yelling at him for all the ruckus he's creating, and the creature crawls forward and begins its explanation. And that's the beginning of everything the way Nobita remembers it (the way he wants it to happen).

* * *

><p>(Except, that's not the way it happened at all:<p>

when Nobita is ten years old, he wakes up in the middle of the afternoon with a dizzy mind and a swelling bump on the back of his head; his window is shut, but the fresh breeze still roll inside his room. There are half-open comic books strewn about all over the place, and the drawer of his desk is hanging ajar. Nobita searches and searches, almost desperate, but he finds nothing but scattered pencils and crumpled examination sheets, and it all feels terribly wrong somehow, even if he doesn't know what exactly he is looking for.

Downstairs, his mother huffs and grumbles, threatening him with a lecture lest he manage to mess up his room once more. Nobita sighs, starts picking up the scattered comic books, and concludes that it was all just a dream.)

* * *

><p>Nobita remembers being eleven and struggling with his math homework, begging for Doraemon to pull out some sort of future device out of his pocket, but the blue robot remains stoic and relentless, seated behind him very seriously like his homeroom teacher would if he were here. Nobita grumbles and whines to no avail, the lead of his pencil threatening to yield under the pressure.<p>

"I didn't come here to give you shortcuts, Nobita," says Doraemon, sounding disappointed but not angry, the way adults would usually talk to him. His face is artificial, uncanny, but the look set on it is anything but comical. "You'll have to do this on your own. It's your fault for putting it off until the last minute, anyway."

("Did you think I never tried," Nobita wants to reply, to nobody in particular, but the sentence remains unsaid, buried in the depths of his scrambled memories.)

"I know, Doraemon, but—" his mouth his dry when he says it, and he doesn't know why, but his voice sounds more sad than pleading, or even whiny; for half a second, Nobita looks back, and he thinks that Doraemon might've noticed. "—yeah," he finishes, defeated, "I understand."

"Good," says Doraemon, looking pleased, and Nobita nods, staring aimlessly at his book. He ends up getting a 79 for the homework; his mother beams proudly during dinner and his father pats him on the head in recognition.

(Except that the way it happens, he doesn't do his homework at all: Sensei gives him a long, painful lecture in front of the whole class, Gian and Suneo snicker from their seats, and Shizuka offers him a sorry smile as she trails behind Dekisugi on the way to his house. His parents say nothing, but the exhausted look on their faces speaks volumes, and they eat dinner in silence.

A month later, Nobita flips his book back to that page and only finds emptiness and a big, red zero, and he smiles to himself and thinks the sight of it is enough to clarify him of his failures.

But sometimes — sometimes, Nobita wonders.)

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><p>Nobita is two months shy of his twelfth birthday when he first tries to confess to the girl of his dreams. Doraemon looks on from behind a secluded spot and cheers at him for moral support; he doesn't quite know what exactly Shizuka's reply is, but he ends up smiling all the way home nonetheless, seemingly pleased just for building up the courage to confront her.<p>

Except sometimes, more often than he'd like, he doesn't succeed, and he feels Gian's calloused hand pat roughly on his lanky back, his loud voice congratulating Nobita on his very first date with his younger sister.

And then Nobita's eyes widen in horror, telling himself that this is probably just another one of his nightmares — except, all the photos in his album is of her and him, and there is no Shizuka to be found; he fails university and Jaiko is a miserable housewife, not a successful manga-ka with her work selling out across the country. And no matter how much Nobita wants to return to his present, his truth, his happiness —

he can't.

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><p>Nobita is twenty-four and Shizuka is smiling at him, all kind and warmth, handing him a glass of warm water. He takes it, and he can't help but feel like he doesn't deserve this. Doesn't deserve anything.<p>

"Thanks," he says, still reeling from the aftermath of his hangover. Her eyes look bright against the neon lights of Dekisugi's living room, against the shine of the artificial stars outside. Nothing is ever genuine these days, he thinks. "Thanks, Shizuka."

Shizuka smiles thinly. "It's okay."

Nobita smiles back, tired and unhappy. "It's not okay," he doesn't say. "I'm not okay." Distantly, a knock sounds; he thinks it might be his own hand calling for his wife, but Shizuka is quick to open the door and greet at the emerging Dekisugi, all happiness and fulfillment and everything that Nobi Nobita isn't.

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><p>Nobita closes his eyes, and when he wakes up, he finds himself back in his bedroom ten years ago, a math book splayed under his elbow, waiting for his blue companion to come and help him out.<p>

He never does.

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><p><strong>AN: **yeah, uhh. Sorry. I just wanted to write something. This was written in like, 30 minutes, so.


End file.
